


Birds of a Feather

by creepyknees



Category: Orbiting Human Circus of the Air (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, alcohol/drinking mentions, and there's a heap of medical history on the side, animal abuse/death mentions, homophobia mentions, illness/death mentions, john's in the closet, julian swears and steals wine, leticia is also in the closet, not as dark as it sounds, nothin but bittersweet stress and reminiscing, takes place pre-canon probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 09:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepyknees/pseuds/creepyknees
Summary: Night falls on the Orbiting Human Circus's first anniversary, and Julian the janitor decides to sneak into the magical afterparty. Complete with a mostly true tale from a depressed parrot and lengthy John<>Leticia conversations over too much wine.





	1. The Parrot

_It is February, a cool, wet night, the clouds having released their last dregs of rain earlier the same morning. Where such weather might’ve been regarded as unpleasant, it is still a joy in the city of Paris, the glistening streets making every lamp burn twice as bright. The evening has nearly outstayed its welcome, but the city is yet alive with people, people coming and going from one prestigious bistro to the next, before finally settling into grand theaters for the night’s entertainment._

_The luckiest of these people, yes, only the most elite in town, had the privilege of seeing the one live event the world held its breath for. Only the finest aristocrats would be in attendance, and, perhaps, with some luck (and quite a bit of recklessness), a single janitor._

_How he manages to sneak into this event, however, remains to be seen. He is currently tending to tonight’s feature presentation, puttering about in a side room off the corridors near backstage, and making a considerable mess of things before the show has even begun._

“I am not,” _Julian insists, scrubbing away at the floor._ “Birds are always this messy.”

“Hey, watch your mouth, kid.”

“Oh, sorry.”

_The act sits hunched over in his cage, eyes glinting in the dim moonlight. A parrot, a third of his green-blue feathers gone and seeming much thinner than a parrot ought to be, glares down at the janitor. But what could be so special about such a bedraggled bird?_

“He talks,” _Julian explains, wiping at his brow._ “Well, I mean, lots of parrots talk. Everyone knows that. But this one...”

_Yes?_

“This one's got a story.”

“Damn right, I do,” _the parrot croaks in a voice much hoarser than a parrot’s ought to be._ “Who’re you talking to, kid?”

“Nobody.”

“And they call _me_ strange. Sure, I’m rough around the edges. But you’re a sight to see, you know that?” _The bird side steps along its perch, craning its neck downward to get a closer look._ “Talking to yourself, trippin’ over buckets, running your mouth at that fancy fella earlier…”

 _Julian groans and covers his face, pressing fingers to eyelids._ “Don’t remind me.”

“How can’t I? It was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week!”

_And indeed, it was. Host John Cameron had burst into the room not but half an hour earlier, fervently inquiring about the state of tonight’s main act. So surprised had Julian been that well more than one social blunder occurred._

_“Mr. Cameron! I-” Julian had shouted, jumping to his feet. With this one motion, he’d both tipped over his bucket,_ and _hit his head upon the rim of the act’s cage, jostling the parrot and spilling soapy water everywhere!_

 _“Shit! I_ _—o_ _h my god, I_ _—_ _oh, no! I didn’t mean to swear, Mr. Cameron, I’m so sorry, it was just-”_

_John had only stared, wide-eyed as the janitor continued to fumble about, almost impressed with the level of utter incompetence. After a moment, he laid a hand on his shoulder, halting the display immediately._

_“Julian, stop_ _—_ _stop! I don’t care! I just want to know if the feature presentation is ready.”_

_And Julian had told him, a fierce blush burning across his face, the parrot crackling with laughter behind him all the while._

“I’ve never seen somebody so bent out of shape over a little cuss!” _the parrot screeches, his cackles continuing through the janitor’s reverie._

“It just slipped out. It was terrible.”

“It’s natural! Seriously, don’t sweat it, kid.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

_The janitor wrings out one of several rags he’d used to clean his mess in the least efficient way possible, cheeks still hot with embarrassment._

“Sorry for hitting your cage, though, uh...what’s your name?”

“Pfeh!” _the bird spits, feathers rising._ “Never thought you’d ask. Name’s Leavenworth.”

“Huh.”

_The janitor sets down his things and rises to his feet, careful this time to avoid hitting his head. Pulling the latch on the tiny wire door, he opens the cage, and takes a step back._

“You can talk, Leavenworth. You’ve got a name, and a story, and everything. Things like that don’t belong in cages.”

“People,” _the parrot says, springing from his perch and latching onto the side of the door._ “Can’t trust ‘em.”

“How come?”

 _The parrot looks him up and down._ “You don’t seem like the kind of person I gotta explain that to.”

_The janitor is silent, and simply holds an arm out into the open air. An offering, of sorts. The bird accepts, cautiously at first, flapping to steady himself on the exposed limb. Soon after landing, Leavenworth relaxes, his posture finally beginning to resemble what a parrot’s ought to be._

“Thanks. It was getting kinda stuffy in there.”

 _The janitor smiles a bit._ “Who locked you up?”

“That lady, the small one, with the strong arms. Her lackeys were too scared of me, heh.”

“Oh...she probably thought you were one of the normal parrots.”

“What a riot! I’d give anything to be your run-of-the-mill macaw.”

_Julian tentatively holds out two fingers and a thumb, making sure Leavenworth is aware of the incoming hand before gently petting his head. The parrot folds into his palm and shuts his eyes, unused to such attention._

“But don’t you wanna be the feature presentation?” _the janitor says._ “You know what show this is, right?”

“Do I! Flocks won’t shut up about it for miles. It’s always orkestral this, orkestral that. Birds listen to the radio too, you know.”

_The parrot sighs._

“Nah, kid, I know what I’m getting myself into. I don’t wanna be here, but I gotta tell this story. It’s all I’ve got left to do.”

“...Do you wanna rehearse it again?”

 _He gives a quick shake, feathers ruffling._ “Nope. I'm as ready as I’ll ever be. This one will be for all my buds out there who weren't so lucky.”

“Alright, if you're sure.”

_Julian slowly places Leavenworth back on his perch, shutting the wire door, making a point not to fasten the lock. The parrot seems at peace._

_A peace which is soon disturbed by loud, hurried footsteps, and a volley of shouts echoing through backstage! Stage manager Leticia Saltier approaches, Jacques and Pierre following in her wake._

_The janitor starts at the noise, moving to gather his cleaning supplies and make his exit._

“I gotta go! If I don't find a good place to hide and watch now, I’ll lose my chance.”

_You'd better hurry, then!_

“I know!” _Arms overflowing with rags and brooms, he turns to the silhouette of Leavenworth._ “Good luck out there!”

“Thanks, kid...I'm gonna need it.”

_With no time to dwell on the parrot's ominous choice of words, Julian scrambles out the door, turning one corner just before the stage manager turns another. Her heels stab at the floorboards in haste, her flurry of complaints bouncing from one burly stagehand to the next._

“He says ‘where is the parrot?’, and I have no idea what he is talking about. _Mon dieu_ , no one tells me anything, not even on a night like tonight. How am I supposed to run the show?”

“Mr. Cameron did say the parrot was backstage—”

“Yes, Jacques, a parrot, I know! And we have enough of them to blot out the sun!”

_Julian clutches cleaning supplies to his chest, quietly sneaking away amidst the din of their arguments. He hasn’t much time now, and rushes to stow away his things in his closet before the broadcast begins._

_His mind, however, isn’t entirely on the show itself, is it?_

“No,” _he huffs beneath his breath._ “Tonight’s extra special. There’ll be a party.”

_A party? For whom?_

_The janitor grins._

“The show. It’s the Orbiting Human Circus’s birthday.”

 


	2. The Pandemic

“That was Professor Benjamin Unstible, with the world’s one and only carnivorous giraffe!”

_The crowd erupts with applause as the professor bobs into a winded bow. The red curtain lowers just before he can be seen wheeling a very tall cage out of view, the present stagehands surely becoming scarce with his approach. Tonight’s show runs without a single hitch, the audience enraptured, the small, visible swath of the stage showing bits of act after act._

“I’m glad I couldn’t see that one from here,” _Julian whispers._ “That giraffe is kinda scary.”

 _Yes, from his position inside the vents, the janitor can see very little. Normally, he would attempt to watch from a much,_ much _closer angle, but not tonight. In fact, he’s been awfully wise about keeping off the air all month._

“I have to lie low. If I stay out of the way now, they won’t be as mad if they catch me at the party tonight.”

_That sounds like a rather large assumption to make._

“Shh!”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve a very special treat for you all. We here at the Orbiting Human Circus are celebrating our first anniversary, and we hope tonight’s performances have lived up to an event this monumental. But I have to say, no matter how flashy the act, nothing quite compares to the age-old tradition of telling a story.”

_Host John Cameron elegantly flourishes to the curtain (or, Julian swears he does, from what he can see), and it rises to reveal the final act, resting on a humble perch in the center of the stage._

“We take you back to our earliest roots with Leavenworth, a parrot of human intelligence, and his extraordinary tale of perseverance.”

_The theater grows dark, a single spotlight trained on our feathered friend. His voice reverberates hollowly through the vents, surrounding Julian with a level of weariness no one else in the audience could hear._

_The janitor leans back, and listens._

“‘Parrot fever’, is what they called it.

“Some years ago _—_ not so many that this was unheard of, mind you—a strange illness broke out over in America. Or, at least, that’s probably where you’ve heard of it. Really, it started out in the country of Brazil. The place is full of tropical birds. The pet industry was booming, and everybody wanted 'em. So some dealers over there, they were moving to ship out a load of birds, business as usual. But they noticed that an awful lot of these birds looked sick.

“Not that this stopped them, of course. Humans and money, they always go hand-in-hand, at the end of the day. These birds were shipped out to the unsuspecting country of Argentina, where the first recorded instance of this illness happened. Funnily enough, it began with a pirate actor and his stage parrot. First, his parrot died. No big deal, right? But then, the actor gets real sick. And so do a good hundred people in the area.

“Now, you’d think that’d be enough for people to get the hint, and keep away from these poor birds. But news didn’t travel so fast in the twenties, and pet birds were all the rage. Especially Christmas parrots. Families all over the U.S. would give their loved ones parrots like they were passing out candy. God knows they didn’t know how to take care of healthy parrots, much less dying ones. I guess you could call it payback.”

“Anyway, a guy named Simon Martin fell for this. Ten days before Christmas, he bought his wife a parrot as a surprise gift. Never mind that this bird looked like they came out of a dumpster. This pet shop owner in Harlem didn’t give a shit. ‘It’s just pining for the Pampas’, he says. Simon believes him.

“Of course, Mrs. Martin wakes up Christmas morning to find a dead parrot under her tree. No surprise there. It doesn’t seem like anything beyond a minor tragedy to them, at first. But then, their kids get sick. They don’t get better. Simon goes to a doctor, and as luck would have it, this doctor had heard of this phenomenon. He’d read an article about the same thing popping up in Argentina some months before. He mails the government about it, and in a matter of hours, the _entire country_ is in a state of panic.

“And so began the 1929 parrot fever epidemic. It’s a bacterial disease; causes stuff like fever, chills, pneumonia. You could catch it from parakeets to cockatoos, and people everywhere were getting sick. Ohio, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles. One in five people who caught it would die, and as you can imagine, the media blew up. All sort of bold headlines were posted, and the public freaked out.

“It was a bad time for us parrots. Not a lot of people talk about how they got hurt in the mix, but boy, did they. All of a sudden, everyone was scared of us. Sailors were told to toss their parrots overboard, while families were instructed to wring the necks of their own birds. The streets were full of ‘em. Tons of dead parrots were shipped over to Washington for research into the disease. I barely made it out alive. I know, I know, I look worse for wear, but I never got the fever. My family just didn’t quite finish the job. So I got out.

“And I got to see it firsthand when America completely turned around. Just as soon as the panic started, people doubled back and started treating it like it didn’t exist! The Martins got better, lots of people started getting better. Parrot fever became the new joke, just another thing that got blown way out of proportion. I had a buddy, another parrot. His name was the Old Soak. People joked about how he’d been locked in a basement, not because he was sick, but because he liked to swear. Real funny stuff. Hilarious!

“But it wasn’t over. The scientists that had been studying the disease started getting sick and dying. This guy named Armstrong, all his buddies start dropping like flies, and it looks like he’s on his way out, too. They manage to save him by injecting him with a recovered patient’s blood, but the entire Hygienic Laboratory was in a real bad way.

“It was so contaminated, in fact, that those scientists burnt the whole place down. They sent a guy in, and he killed every parrot, mouse, pigeon, parrot, guinea pig, rat, and monkey they had. ‘A clean job’, they called it. Burned them in incinerator. Sealed up the windows, and the entire place was sprayed down with cyanide. Sparrows fifty feet above the building dropped dead, the fumes were so strong. It was a wild massacre to end them all.

“And the rest is history. A cure was discovered. Parrot imports were banned. Couple months later, the Hygienic Laboratory was expanded by the government and renamed the National Institute for Health. All’s well in the name of medicine, right?”

_Leavenworth pauses, his last words cracking over the microphone._

“Parrots are supposed to live long lives, y’see. I’m getting up there myself. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but we’re intelligent creatures. We can live over sixty years. Now, I dunno about you, but I’d say we’re comparable to a good number of humans on that alone.

“But you people are still buying birds.”

_The parrot’s voice begins to rise, the rhythmic waves of his story growing choppy and stirring the janitor from his daze. Whether it’s the break in his tale, or the vague feeling that his name is being called, Julian snaps away from the lull of the feature presentation._

“Wait,” _he whispers._ “It’s almost time.”

_Time for what?_

“The party! I have to get there early and hide.”

_The janitor struggles to change position, squirreling as quietly as he can through the vents so as not to disturb the show. However, no noise he might’ve made would have disrupted the broadcast further than what was already taking place._

_In his haste, Julian paid no attention to the rest of Leavenworth’s tirade, which grew stronger and more heated by the minute. The crowd was growing uncomfortable. By the time the janitor had shimmied back out into the open air, the parrot had been removed from the stage, captured before he could make yet another daring escape. Host John Cameron expertly takes it all in stride, deftly linking the pitfalls of progress to the rough and rewarding path of show business. In what was likely the most seamless transition possible, the scheduled advertisement begins, followed by the last musical act of the evening, effectively drowning out Leavenworth’s final protests._

_What became of our feathered friend, I do not know. But, well. One can always hope for the best._

 

{~x~x~x~}

 

 _Sneaking into afterparties isn’t an activity the janitor often participates in, truth be told. In the past, blending into the attendees had proved to be such an impossible task that he often assumed them to be entirely off limits. A shower and a single old suit were never enough to disguise him from cast members who knew his face all too well. And Julian knew it was foolish from experience, too; his first and only attempt to sneak in had been especially disastrous, resulting in an upturned buffet and the escape of not one, but_ two _promising acts. Parties, therefore, were a banned thing._

“But not tonight,” _he whispers excitedly._ “Tonight’s too special. I can’t miss it, I can’t. I’ll be the most careful anyone’s ever been. No one will even know I was there.”

_I would hope that would be the case._

_And how is he plotting to pull off a trick such as this? Well, if there’s one thing the janitor has always excelled at, it would be, mouselike, cramming himself into the smallest spaces available to him. Hiding in plain sight hadn’t worked; that much was obvious. And so, he devises a plan._

_Julian rushes noiselessly down flights of stairs the staff rarely uses, ghosting down to the lower levels of the tower towards the parlor and dining halls. He makes no effort to brush off the layer of dust he’s coated in from climbing in the vents, nor does he pause to fix his untied shoe._

“I’ll hide in the waiter’s carts, and under the tables. I’ll move fast. No one’s going to be looking down at a party like this.”

_But why? All that risk, and you won’t be able to see a thing!_

“That’s not the point!” _Julian reaches the correct floor and stops, pulling at his thumbs and shirt buttons._ “I just want to be there. It’s like...the principle of the thing. Today’s practically a historic event, you know that.”

_I suppose…_

_No one has yet arrived for the party, the audience surely still captivated by the evening’s final number. The janitor slips into the empty dining hall and inhales in awe. The place is a thing to behold, every crystal chandelier already lit and heaps of silver cutlery sparkling in the candlelight. The ornate carpet is spotless, previously shampooed by the janitor himself. The hardwood floor of the miniature stage shines, the smell of meats and pastries already wafting into the room._

_And below every plate is draped a perfect, floor-length tablecloth._

“It’s beautiful,” _he breathes, longing to experience the space firsthand._

_Julian exhales, shakes his head ever so slightly, and continues passing through. No, there is no use in wishing here. He is fortunate enough to be this close to the event at all._

_Keeping quiet, he first peers through the doors to the back kitchen, and then stealthily slides inside. The kitchen staff is hard at work, engrossed in preparing what may very well be their most important meal of the year. The janitor crouches low to the floor, ducking behind counter after counter, all but leaping into the nearest supply closet!_

_The room is dark, but Julian can make out the row of silver dining carts, lined up and glinting in the low light. He allows himself a small sound of triumph before choosing one and climbing inside._

_Knees tucked under his chin, cramped and cornered in pitch-black darkness, he breathes, and he waits._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the parrot fever pandemic was absolutely real, and the carnivorous giraffe somewhat less so, depending on how you look at it. please take care of your birds. props to whoever caught other fictional and non-fictional references. stay tuned for the party.


	3. The Party

_Julian is roused from a shallow slumber as the cart begins to move, immediately fighting down a wave of claustrophobia as he regains consciousness. He hadn’t slept long, he could be sure of that. But how he had managed to doze off amidst the rise and swell of the party was anyone’s guess. His ears, already accustomed to the harsh static of the audience, were now filled with jovial chatter and the cacophonous clinking of silver and glass._

_The janitor’s heart leaps in his chest as the cart rumbles out into the dining hall, the voices around him growing clearer. If only he could see! The chorus of refined accents tells him only the finest are in attendance, surely picking at hors d'oeuvres next to glittering ice sculptures and chocolate fountains._

“I gotta see,” _he whispers, clawing at his knees._ “I can’t just sit here.”

_But you must!_

“I’ll only peek.”

_Against his better judgement, Julian peers out the crack of the cart’s sliding door, a sliver of the party burning in the darkness. Once his eyes adjust, he drinks in as much as he can from the minuscule vantage point. Everything is just as splendid as he imagined, from the towering fruit arrangements to the rich mahogany of the cello on stage._

“Oh, do try the caviar, Meredith. It must be the best I’ve ever had.”

“What a show! A risky move, for such a night!”

“Ah, and there he is!”

“Yes, yes, hello. Good evening, everyone.”

_Even in an uproar such as this, the janitor gasps as he picks the unmistakable voice of Host John Cameron out of the crowd. His gaze shifts to see the man shaking hands with other men, his suit crisp and his piano-key teeth spreading into a wide grin beneath his perfectly waxed mustache. He is late, most certainly, but fashionably so._

_Chief stagehand Leticia Saltier stands at his side, their elbows linked. She is just as stunning, her lacy dress flaunting airy layers of tulle, chandelier earrings jingling with every turn of her head. She is a bit winded, he can tell, but her tousled bob only serves to flatter her more._

_The pair finishes their preliminary introductions and soon walk out of view to be seated. At first, Julian deflates. Then he nearly falls over as the waiter whips the cart around to follow, eager to be the one to serve the veritable hosts!_

_The janitor’s heart pounds as their voices are suddenly much closer, the threat of being caught skyrocketing. Of course, he would love to eavesdrop on their conversation especially, but the risk couldn’t possibly be worth it!_

“Is it?” _he whispers._

_No! Absolutely not!_

“Yeah, it is.”

_As a tray of appetizers is lifted from the cart, Julian noiselessly darts out of hiding and beneath the table! Good lord!_

_His voice is barely a whisper._ “Calm down! It’s fine, it’s fine.”

 _While it is most certainly_ not _fine, the janitor curls into the smallest shape he can, not once touching any feet beside him. When he is calm enough, he does a double take. There are John’s oxfords, shining, and Leticia’s heels, red as blood. But no others? The most esteemed guests at the party had reserved a table for two._

 _John’s voice parts the air, hushed against glass._ “This is a bit much.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? No one can be suspicious this way.”

“I know. I know.”

_Host John Cameron’s sigh is loud and clear. Leticia crosses her legs, and the janitor stifles a gasp as her heel nearly grazes his ear. Oh, this was a bad idea._

“Oh, this was a bad idea. The president is right over there.”

“John, calm down. We have a plan.”

“He’s looking at us. My tie isn’t straight.”

“Well, neither are you.”

 _Julian flinches as John Cameron starts, the host's knee banging against the top of the table._ “ _Leticia_!”

“What? He cannot hear, and we look like we are eloping within the week. We are foolproof.”

_Host John Cameron groans and sinks into his chair._

“Come on. Eat. Look sociable.”

“Will you stop being so cavalier about this if I do?”

 _Leticia drums her (likely) cherry red nails atop the table._ “Yes, so as long as you grow up. Cary has not visited in over a month. You are overreacting.”

“...You’re probably right.”

“ _Oui_ , I am. So let’s enjoy as much of this as we can. Pass me the bottle.”

_A long stretch of silence snakes its way around the hapless janitor as the two above pick at their crudit_ _é_ _s. His skin crawls, both with the terror of being caught and regret at the invasion of privacy he’d unwittingly committed. Surely this wouldn’t have been so personal, had they been sitting with other guests. But, for once, Julian is well aware that he is someplace he is not supposed to be._

_But how to escape?_

“Ah, shit!” _John Cameron starts once again, his silverware clattering to his plate._ “The speech!”

“Oh, no, John! Tell me you didn’t forget!”

“I did, I _did_ , damn it all...it’s fine, it’s fine! I’ll-I’ll think of something. It’s fine.”

“I cannot believe you sometimes.”

 _John’s chair slides out from beneath the table._ “You and me both.”

_He leaves in a poorly disguised rush, and the janitor relaxes a bit. He unravels halfway and scoots further from Leticia, who anxiously scrapes at her ankle with a heel, digging a hole in her good tights._

_Slightly braver, Julian bunches up a section of the tablecloth and gingerly peers out from below, anxious and vigilant. As he frantically searches for an exit, host John Cameron strides onto the miniature stage._

_Leticia’s left leg bounces rhythmically._ “ _Merde_...come on, John... _ne fait pas le con..._ ”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you all for coming out tonight. I pray that the show lived up to your expectations, as well as to the budding legacy of the Orbiting Human Circus itself.”

_The crowd claps and murmurs in agreement. John had brought his wine glass up to the stage with him, which is, while ideal for the toast he intends to make, almost entirely empty._

           “None of this would have been possible without loving patrons such as yourself, it’s true. It’s been a blessing to be able to bring such a unique and miraculous product to you all, not as a one-time radio spotlight or petty sideshow, but as an intricate series of lights that illuminate the lives of millions. Some may call it a shallow and dying form of entertainment, but you all know the truth. Nothing quite compares to the comfort of...the honest human voice.”

_The host goes silent, something wavering, something tipping. He looks towards the table and Leticia, and she must be glaring at him, as he blinks, and regains some of his composure. John raises his glass above the crowd, the crystal glinting._

           “And so, we thank you. This has been a wonderful first year, my friends. One could say it was only the beginning of many more wonderful things to come.

           “Here’s...to them.”

_Host John Cameron downs the rest of his glass with perhaps too much enthusiasm. The janitor is quickly snapped back to reality as Leticia bangs a fist on the table beneath the applause. So entranced was he with this momentous speech, he nearly forgot to move._

            _You’d better hurry, he’s coming back!_

           “I’m trying, I’m trying!”

_John Cameron leaves the stage, stumbling a bit along the way. Luckily, the dining cart returns to his table before he’s even made his way back, surely reading that the host’s first drink of the evening would not be his last. With the waiter’s eyes fixed firmly on their customer, Julian slides back into the cart’s compartment completely unnoticed._

_His heart hammers._ “Oh, thank god. That was close.”

_And it still is! The janitor nearly jumps out of his skin as the cart door opens, a hand reaching in to grab a bottle of spirits near his feet._

           “What a speech, Mr. Cameron!” _they exclaim, oh, ever so slightly forced._ “Care for some champagne?”

 _John Cameron gives a low chuckle._ “Armagnac.”

_The waiter’s gloved hand floats over the bottles, grabbing the correct one with ease before exiting the cart. The janitor lets out a held breath._

           “ _John-_ ”

           “Not yet, not yet.”

           “No, you will be sober for this! What was _that_?”

           “It was,” _(and, here, Julian imagines the host taking a swig of brandy),_ “show business.”

            _Leticia’s voice is reduced to a whispered hiss, though hardly any less daunting than usual._ “It was pathetic! You call that a speech?”

_And the janitor can hear no more, the cart wheeling away as the wise waiter takes their cue to depart. Julian, crumpled inside a cabinet’s worth of space, feels a dispirited veil over his otherwise inspired mood._

           “I thought it was a good speech.”

            _Perhaps it was. Leticia can be a bit of a perfectionist._

           “Maybe…”

            _Yet another cold sweat washes over the janitor as the cart enters the clamour of the back kitchen._ “Aw, no…”

            _What is it now?_

           “There's no way to sneak out...I’m stuck back here till the party ends.”

            _You...aren’t going to try to sneak in again?_

           “No.” _Julian rubs the frayed ends of his coat sleeves, still guilty over eavesdropping so spectacularly._ “That was enough.”

            _I believe you are right._

            _The cart is left alone in the supplies closet long enough for the janitor to leave one hiding place and duck into another, crawling into a nearby armoire before the waiters can return to serve the entrées. Julian sits in the dark and muffled silence, a flurry of thoughts twirling in his mind._

_...Are you alright?_

           “I wish it'd been a different table. Or something. I wish I hadn't intruded like that. But, most of all I wish…”

            _Yes?_

           “I wish they were enjoying themselves.” _He sinks into the cupboard, knees hitting the brooms stored inside._ “I guess it’s more complicated than that, though.”

            _Yes, it seems like they’re dealing with a lot right now._

           “Mm.”

            _Julian fidgets with stray fibres on his sleeves, wondering if he should continue to help the cast, or stop helping, or anything, anything to make them happier. There is no clear cut solution, of course. All he knows is how much he loves the show. Perhaps that would be enough._

_And the two pivotal cast members aren’t entirely alone with their problems, he now knows. They had each other, at the very least. Julian rests easy on that fact, eyelids growing heavy as the night draws on. Though still remorseful for his accidental overhearing, one piece of knowledge sticks out to him over his mistake._

           “I never knew they were so close...”


	4. The Pre-Dawn Sense of Foreboding

_            John Cameron and Leticia Saltier are close. The janitor, no longer able (or quite willing) to follow them through the party, cannot see it, but they are very close, indeed. Leticia doesn’t leave John’s arm all evening, aiding him in both conversation between all sorts of important figures, and in walking a straight line. The host himself is drifting, not entirely present, pasting on a showroom grin and reciting line after line of expected smalltalk. Both cast members are uncomfortable, but only if one knows how to look. _

_            After a fairly terse discussion with the president of the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation (which would have been infinitely worse, were not it for the formality and success of the event), the pair decides they’ve had enough. It’s nearly four in the morning, the party now consisting of only a few stray couples murmuring over drinks. A haze seems to lift from the two, and they wave goodbye before departing “for some air”. _

_ Which isn’t entirely a fabrication. John Cameron had been queasy all day, alcohol or no, and the cool night air welcomes him. No one else stands on the outer balconies of the tower, the streetlamps notably dimmer, most of the city having gone home to bed. A steady wind blows, and they are up so high. So, so high. _

_ John smells rain. He hunches over, leaning against the railing, heavily. _

           “If you are going to puke, don’t do it there,”  _ Leticia says, words hindered by the cigarette that’s already found its way between her teeth. _ “Imagine having to clean that up…”

_ John only emits a low moan. Leticia makes her way to his side, moodily leaning against iron. She lights up, inhales, and passes the cigar. The host accepts it and follows suit. _

           “That...was…”  _ John flicks ash onto the world below. _ “Miserable.”

           “You’re telling me. The best part was seeing those PBC fools, pretending to be nice. And that is saying something.”

           “Are you sure it wasn’t watching me make a fool of myself in front of every name in Paris?”  _ John tries to laugh, and it doesn’t come out right. _

           “Oh, no, believe me, even your ridiculous speech was better than anything that could come out of the president’s mouth.”

_ John sighs, passing the cigar. He wants to say, “What was the worst part, then?” He wants to say, “Wasn’t it me? Just everything about me, from start to finish, always?” But he has not the energy to even be self-deprecating. _

           “John,”  _ she says, her voice softening.  _ “You have that look again.”

_ He groans, rubbing both palms into his eyes.  _ “Oh, Tisha…”

           “I know...I know.”

_            And Leticia Saltier does know. She knows when the host is spiralling before he’s hardly made a sound, she knows exactly what quips to deploy to get him up again; such is the intuition of a chief stagehand. She also knows just how desperately she wants to kick the nearest potted plant over the balcony, and how badly she wants to scream at the night. But she is still, rigid and reaching for the next cigarette.  _

_  John holds his head in his hands. _ “I’m sorry I asked you to do this. I know you would’ve rather come with Esther.”

           “Hah, please. You know that would be just as plausible as you showing up with Cary.”  _ Leticia blows a puff of smoke to the wind, pausing. _

           “Why wasn’t he here tonight? Everyone was expecting him.”

_            John lowers his hands, his unfocused gaze loosely fixed on the bleeding and blurring of the city lights below. _

           “I wrote him, before the anniversary,”  _ he says quietly. _ “I told him not to come.”

_            Leticia’s face falls. She cannot force her tongue around words of encouragement, no matter how she may try. The stage manager opts to lay her head on his shoulder and rubs his arm in a half embrace. John sniffles, squeezing her hand. _

           “I can hear it in their voices, you know. Even tonight,” _he says, and his voice pitches upwards to mimic the sneering tone of the average nosy neighbor and critic._ “‘Oh, that Cameron! A real jackdaw! Truly a man of _specific_ _mannerisms.._.’”

_ They laugh together, discordantly, wetly, and not at all amused. _

           “How did you ever guess, anyway? I can hardly remember anymore.”

“John, we are in theater. Everyone is seeing everyone.”

           “You know as well as I do that isn’t a good enough answer.”

           “Mm. Fine.”  _ She folds further into his arm, exhaling another plume of smoke.  _ “I am experienced enough to know, that is all. It doesn’t take me long to guess...birds of a feather, and all that.”

           “Right…”

_ John sighs, resting his head atop the stage manager’s, leaning closer. _ “None of this is me, Leticia. This party...that speech...it’s all pointless.

           “I feel like that parrot...a dying byproduct of an age of someone else’s fortune. It’s only a matter of time till we crash and burn.”

_ Leticia’s face scrunches up in confusion. She knows well enough that it isn’t the alcohol talking, but this isn’t like him to say, not even amidst his frequent shift in moods. _

           “Where is this all coming from?”

           “Oh, well…”  _ John heaves a shuddering sigh. _ “I wish I knew.”  _ The weight of this admittance hovers over his head, poised, like an arrow prepared for its future strike. _

_  Leticia holds his hand ever tighter.  _ “I am...sorry, for being so flippant, back there. It is a bigger deal for you, I’m sure.”

           “In some ways, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want you to lose your position, either.”

           “Hmph. The day they fire us is the day the show dies. I will not be going down with it.”

_ John laughs, bitter and genuine. _ “Letisha...how did we get here? What happened, this year?”

           “You tell me. You ran the show.”

           “ _ We _ ran the show.”

           “That is the greatest act of them all, then.”  _ Leticia smirks wryly, crushing a cigarette butt beneath her heel. _ “We are miracles, and no one knows it.”

           “Well, I don’t know about that,”  _ John says, smiling and nudging her playfully, _ “but I would call you a miracle worker.”

           “Ha!”  _ She snorts and gently shoves him back. _ “No. No, John. What I am? Is…”

_ He gives her a quizzical look, and she doesn’t meet his eyes. She sniffs, and clears her throat, and rubs some of her lipstick off with the back of her hand. _

           “I’m tired.”

_ The host rubs her shoulder. _ “That very well may be the most you’ve given away all night.”

           “Don’t get used to it.”

           “I won’t.”

_  Leticia puts away her pack of cigarettes, making no attempt to stifle a massive yawn. _ “Ah, what an evening...it’s nearly dawn, now. Have you sobered up enough to head back?”

           “I can’t walk the way...if I called a cab, I suppose I….”

_ John trails off into nothing, his mind drifting to his small, dark, empty apartment, and what he may do there. The host does not want to think about what he may do there. He longs for another cigar, and another drink, and to never leave this exact spot, where they are alone and yet have more company than the entire tower could offer. _

           “I could drive you home,”  _ Leticia says. _

           “Could I…could we go back to your place?”

_ Her stare is blank and silent, eyes searching his drawn features. _

           “Tonight isn’t...it’s not a good time. For being...alone.”

_  Leticia sighs, exasperated and full of fondness. _ “Stupid. Of course. You still have a change of clothes there. It is a mess, though.”

           “Oh, I doubt my place is much better.”

           “The host of a famous radio show does not have much time for cleaning,”  _ she says, _ “but the host of a famous radio show does not have three dogs.”

           “Fair enough. I hope I’m not intruding.”

           “We are beyond this, John. I have passed out on your floor, and you have passed out on mine. This is not about being a gentleman.”

           “Thank you.”

_ Leticia pulls her thin overcoat closer with a hiss and a swear, cursing the weather and whatever being that chose it. John moves to give her his own coat and nearly stumbles over, catching the railing in the knick of time. The stage manager snickers. _

           “God. I’m sorry for being so particular tonight. And impulsive. And drunk.”

           “It’s fine. You will pay me later.”  _ She takes his arm, as well as his coat. It doesn’t smell like him.  _ “Next time, I will be the one going on a bash.”

           “Cheers to that.”

_            And the two head down, down and down the nigh-empty tower, the host falling over in the elevator and the stage manager taking seven minutes to find her keys. There is a thread they’re walking on, and they can both feel it, tightrope walkers in their own circus of trials and acts. But they’re beside each other, steadying each other. _

_            And they are happy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be the last chapter but it was getting relatively long! had to split it up
> 
> all the time i think about john cameron being in the closet...he's implied to be, from the bonus ep. in retrospect i always thought it was ironic that leticia was concerned about walking into a men's shower for fear of being accused of sexual harassment (considering john would be viewed Even More Poorly for doing this if he were out, in that day n age) anyway im sad and gay and love them


	5. The Peace

_            We jump back to the janitor, who had, in an act most out of character, fallen asleep for some time within the kitchen storage cabinet. For him, sleep was never long or frequent, what with peculiar shifts and goings-on much more exciting than dreams. But the lull of the crowd’s distant chatter and the comfortable closeness of the armoire had bested him. It is the silence, and not any noise, that finally rouses the janitor from his nap. _

_            He starts, as if there had been a noise, and rubs at his eyes. _ “Oh. It’s over.”

_            The kitchen is dark and dormant, and Julian must feel his way through the area to find a way out (not a particularly difficult task, for someone used to cleaning it). So adept is he at navigating the dark that the janitor pauses, stopping alongside what he knows to be one of the silver carts. _

_            ...And just what do you think you’re up to? _

__ “I can’t go to parties,”  _ he says, _ “not after that one time. Or ever, really. But I’ll still watch them, sometimes. And sometimes, after they’re over…”

_            The janitor reaches down into the cart’s compartment, fingers slipping around the glass, until he finds what he knows to be two unopened bottles of champagne! _

__ “They always order too much,” _ he laughs, holding them to his chest.  _ “They never miss a couple bottles.”

_            But that’s stealing! _

__ “Oh, come on, is it? I’m staff here too, y’know.”

_            Julian, taking extra caution with his dubiously claimed treasure in tow, feels his way out of the kitchen. Dim streaks of orange splay out across the carpet, streetlamps reaching the dining hall’s impressive windows just enough to light the way. The tower does feel notably more eerie this time of night, he will admit. But he knows it is never truly empty. _

_            With this in mind, the janitor hides the champagne bottles in a bucket he had strategically left nearby, concealing them under a stray napkin. It wasn’t uncommon to run into other staff members in the night (though he is, admittedly, usually the one doing the running in), so he has reason to hide, I suppose. That is, if he is, indeed, stealing. _

__ “It’s  _ not  _ stealing! I bet there wasn’t a single chef in that kitchen who left sober.”

_            He climbs, up and up, passing up popular elevators and stairwells for back passages and silent hallways. (He contemplates using the old manual elevator, functioning by pulley system, but at least this idea is regarded in a poor light, with the elevator being much too rickety and himself being much larger than years prior.) _

_            The janitor runs into almost no one, only catching glimpses of other staff members. Jacques and Pierre are still awake, locked in a heated game of poker, going from arguing to laughing and arguing again. Julian wonders of they had been invited to the anniversary, and figures stuffy parties might simply not be “their scene”. _

__ “They do look like they’re having more fun,”  _ he whispers to himself, _ “than Leticia and Mr. Cameron, I mean.”

_            And they are. The janitor lingers just long enough to hear a triumphant whoop from Jacques, his chair’s legs loudly scraping the floor as he hops to his feet. _

__ “I told you! I knew you were bluffing! Ha!”

__ “Aw, shut up. Took you enough tries.”

_            Julian leaves them, and risks whistling in the hall leading up to his closet. Everything echoes when you’re up high enough, the tune living and bouncing from wall to wall, leaving and coming back again. He is not alone, that much he is sure of. But a melody does help to fill the space. _

_            The janitor’s closet isn’t much to speak of; large, as far as closets go, and small, as far as decent living spaces go. An oil lamp, a small window, a handful of clothes strung up on errant piping, a cot that’s seen better days. And, sure enough, brooms and mops and rags for days. This space is not his own, with a myriad of supplies being dumped inside at any given point in time, but he knows it best. _

_            Setting down the bucket and checking over his shoulder once more for posterity, Julian loosens a specific floorboard near his cot. Beneath is a small, secret space, sparsely filled with belongings too precious to leave out in the open. Ticket stubs, dingy cassette tapes, a pocketwatch, a mangled music box, a bit of money. But, most relevant, a bottle of wine, hoarded from a previous event. He sets one of the bottles of champagne next to this before resealing the tiny alcove, wondering if this could be the tiniest wine cellar in existence.  _

_            Gripping the other bottle, the janitor wrenches open the window at the far end of the room, teetering on a small stool to reach. Then, in a most unrecommended manner, he squeezes through the portal and out into the open air. _

_            Jutting out of the side of the janitorial closet, a small wooden platform lies just outside, usually only used by maintenance to get around this area of the tower without having to climb the girders themselves. For Julian, it is nothing more than a personal makeshift balcony, and, in this case, a very ill-advised place to become inebriated. _

__ “So I should drink alone, in a dark closet, you mean?”  _ Julian laughs as he pops the cork of the bottle, a fizzy wave spilling out over his hand and down the side of the tower. _ “It’s too pretty out tonight for that. Up here, I can breathe.”

_            It’s still dangerous, one way or another. _

__ “I’m careful.”

_            Julian sits, taking swigs straight from the bottle, feeling the hummingbird bubbles of champagne flood his senses. The wind is still strong enough to be pleasantly present, some city lights below not yet having winked out, the moon still cradled in the blanket of night. It  _ is  _ lovely. _

__ “God,”  _ he breathes, _ “I still feel like a creep for spying like that. They didn’t want anybody else there.”

_            Yes, sneaking in in such a way didn’t seem like it would lead to good things. _

__ “I didn’t  _ mean  _ to. I couldn’t control where the waiter went.”

_            All true, all true. _

_            The janitor huffs, taking another drink and lying flat on his back. Stray drops of rain fall, whether from the sky or dripping from the iron bars above. It is one of those unsatisfying nights where some things feel a bit less real, and the narration materializing in your head feels a bit more like simply speaking to yourself. The alcohol, he figures, will help. _

__ “You know,”  _ he says, _ “sometimes I think stars sing through sparrow’s songs.”

_            You do? _

__ “Well, yeah! What else could it be?”

_            He quickly sits back up, already dizzy. _ “I hear them in the middle of the night, right? And you do hear birds then, sometimes. But this always sounds different, like...chimes, instead of chirps.”

_            Are you sure it couldn’t be coming from a mechanical source? A vibration in the girders? A loose ceiling fan? _

__ “ _ Yes _ ,”  _ the janitor states emphatically. _ “I mean, no, I know it’s not those things. Nothing sounds just like it. And I’ve seen those sparrows before, flying up way higher than they’re supposed to. They’ve just got this important mission...they’re trying to pass messages along, for the stars.”

_            And what do they say? _

__ “I can’t figure it out. Yet.” Julian sighs and draws his knees closer to his chest. “It’s gotta be important, though. It takes all day for the messages to get here. So I never stop listening.”

_            There are no birds, now. They will be out soon enough, the encroaching dawn calling them like moths to a flame, but not yet. The janitor thinks back to the sparrows, back to swans, back to orkestrals, back to the parakeets perched on the fingers of this evening’s wealthy party-goers, and back to his newfound friend, Leavenworth. Oh, Leavenworth… _

__ “Do you think he’s alright?”

_            ...The parrot? _

__ “I never heard the end of the show. I mean, he rehearsed for me, so I did hear it, but…”

_            Julian flicks a bit of rubble from the platform, never hearing it land. _ “Guess I won’t have the whole story for Coco again.”

_            ...I believe he’s just fine. _

__ “You do? For real?”

_            He is a very experienced parrot. He could be hiding in the rafters as we speak. _

__ “I’ll have to check later,”  _ he says, having more champagne and becoming increasingly in no state to climb anything. _

_            The night grows fuzzier with every drop that hits his tongue, and everything seems calmer than ever before. The city sleeps its deepest below, and Julian feels a sense of fondness not unlike a parent, keeping watch over a sleeping child. He, in some part, provides for them, he feels. In whatever small way, he, too, is ushering forth a miraculous circus to inspire the minds of millions. And, in this moment, perhaps that is enough. _

_            As most of the bottle is drained, and the sun slowly peeks over the horizon, the janitor begins to sing. First, he begins with a handful of lines from “Let’s Misbehave”, but, remembering his own recent misbehavior, deems it inappropriate. Instead, he settles on “I’m a Dreamer (Aren’t We Saws?)”, a popular radio cover featuring John Cameron and his host of singing saws. The birds rise with his voice, singing along from everywhere and nowhere at once. _

_            Perhaps it is only his imagination, but Julian swears he hears a parrot in the mix. _


End file.
